Masterpiece

Chapter 7

Since I only teach two days of the week, I find boredom eating away at me again, so I click my laptop on in search of the college's web site.
It's now or never
The arrow hovers over the site name. I have the sudden urge to see the school in person, so I shove the machine's weight off of me as I get up.

My phone rings through my jeans and I pick it up.

"How could you go to New York and not tell me?!" Victoria screams through the phone's speaker.

"I've literally been here for two days and you're just now calling," I say leaning against a cold window.

"My parents hadn't let me out of the house and on top of that I lost phone privileges. They found out I got drunk at that party. Anyway, how is it?! I've always wanted to go to New York."

"It's pretty cool. What you'd expect: tall buildings. Loads of people. Shiny taxis." She sighs through the phone.

"I wish I was there."
"I wish you were here too. It's getting lonely here."
It was quiet on the other side of the line. Muffled voices come through the speaker.

"I have to go, Lisa. My mom is freaking out. I'll see you soon. Don't forget about me out there."

I smile. "Not possible." The phone answers with a click. I am once again alone.

"Here goes nothing," I mutter to myself. I gaze at the tall building across standing tall on the other side of the window. My lungs are overwhelmed with the breath I hold in.

I journey across the street of cars containing stressed looking people.
My hands finger the door handle before I open it. Cold air rushes past my face.

The tall building holds staircases covered in slick black paint. Paintings adorn the wall and polished floors sit beneath my feet.

This is mad cool, I think as I put a finger up to a smooth portrait of a delicate ballerina dancing on a white background.

"Excuse me, can I help you?" A tall brunette in glasses walks up to me, her heels clicking against the tile. Her skin is tight against her face, revealing her bone structure. She looks old enough and uptight enough to be my mother's best friend.

"Um, I was just here to apply-"
"I'm sorry, students are no longer able to enroll here after four o' clock. Have a good day."

"But it's only-"

"Have a good day," she says in a chilled tone. She clutched a clipboard to her stomach and she looks at me with angry eyes.

"Look, all I want to do is apply for school here. Art is pretty much all I've got and it would mean so much to me if you could make that happen." I plead to her with my eyes.

Her strict composure gradually twists into a pleased expression.

"You're an artist, you say?"
"Yes?" I don't see how that changes anything.

"Than we have much to discuss." She leads me to a marble desk.

"Here, we have a program for late admitting students." I'm hanging on to every word.

"If you can put together five pieces in one school week, I'll give you your diploma, cap, the whole enchilada. You will start Monday and hand it in to me every day at seven sharp until Friday. Five paintings for five days." She arches an eyebrow questioningly and I do the same.

I can't seem to wrap my brain around the concept. This seems unrealistic. So unrealistic I swear I could pinch myself and still be on the ground of my "home."

"Wait, let me get this straight. If I make five paintings for you and turn them in everyday, I graduate early?"

Even as I say it, it sounds completely ridiculous. This woman looks beyond callous but yet she's striking an extraordinary deal.

"Absolutely." Her face gets darker. "But let me warn you. This isn't any walk in the park. Quite the opposite, actually. All walks of life have waltzed in here, just like you, but only one person has ever completed this successfully."

My face contorts with confusion. "But why? All you have to do is hand it in, right?"

"No," she says bluntly. "For this particular program, there will be a panel of judges. They will decide whether your art is up to par. If it isn't,
you cannot apply. Before you make your decision, be sure you know exactly what you're getting in to."

So apply and graduate later or do this and risk it all. She stands straighter, eyebrows raised. Her face is smug. She doesn't think I can do it. Who am I kidding, I don't think I can do it.

I'm going to regret this.

"Ok. I'm going to do it, but don't underestimate me. I may just surprise you."

-

My feet slide as I place the floor.
I'm trying not to panic because I'm running out of money from food and my last store run and I still need to buy more supplies.

I need help.

"Really? That's crazy." John sits at the wheel listening to me tell him about my trip to the college. I don't know if we're friends yet, but he's the only person I know here and I need a ride. I can't risk spending any money on cab fare.

"I know and all in a school week. But if I want to do this, I'm going to have to roll with the punches."

"I guess so." He spins the wheel right.
We find ourselves in the parking lot of a Hobby Lobby. When I walk in I am overwhelmed by the size. It's much bigger than the one in Connecticut. The shopping cart scoots along the floor.

I swear we put every color we could into the oversized basket. It resembles a rainbow and the clerk gives us a crooked frown. I pull out my envelope of money, but John is already pulling out his wallet.

"I got it." Thank god for that because my heart sunk at handing over another bill.

After purchasing the items, John drives me back to my building. He looks over at me.
"So, what's the plan?"

"Well, you're going home while I figure out my first painting."

He put on a face crossed with insulted and pleading. "You're really not going to let me help?"

"Look, I really don't want you mixed in with my problems." We're at the trunk carrying bags out of the vehicle.

"But I want to get mixed into your problems." I can see he's not going to let this go.
"Fine, you may help me."

"I'm sorry, I may what?"

I roll my eyes and say, "Help me."

He grins at me as we walk through the door.
"That's just what I wanted to hear."